A Different Sort of Rescue
by JantoJones
Summary: Napoleon has a plan to get Illya to unwind. (Written for the LJ Section VII 'Short Affair' Challenge)


Napoleon Solo had decided that his friend and partner needed some relaxation, and to forget about enforcement for a while. There'd been a lot of tough assignments lately, and Illya had a habit of internalising his stresses and emotions. He was aware that the Russian regularly 'cut loose' at his favourite jazz haunt, but thought he needed something else, even if it was just for one day. The CEA had wracked his brains for something, but nothing would come mind. Then he received a phone call.

"Illya, you have to help me!" he pleaded, as he entered their shared office.

The Russian looked up from his report and raised a quizzical eyebrow. It was rare to a flustered Napoleon Solo.

"Anything, my friend. What do you need?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The following day, his first day off in three weeks, Illya found himself on sitting on the sofa of Napoleon's sister, Seraphina.

"Why exactly do you need my help to babysit you nephew and niece?"

"Because there are two of them," Solo told him, as though that were sufficient explanation.

"Are they so bad that it takes two highly trained agents to keep them in line for a few hours?"

Seraphina bustled into the room pushing the two children ahead of her.

"Thanks for doing this Leon," she said, with a grateful smile. "It's the funeral of Simeon's Boss's wife, so we have to go."

"Don't worry about it Phina," Napoleon answered. "Illya and I are more than happy to help."

"It is our pleasure, Mrs Maxwell-Solo," Illya agreed, amused by her shortening of Napoleon's name. He'd never heard anyone call him 'Leon'.

"Please, call me Seraphina," she told him. "Now, this young man here is Dashiell. He is nine going on forty. The young lady hiding behind him is Amelia. She is seven. Don't be taken in by this apparent shyness."

Dashiell, who looked so much like Napoleon he could be mistaken for his son, held his hand out to shake Illya's. The Solos must be born with impeccable manners, the Russian thought to himself. He accepted the hand.

"It is nice to meet you, Mr Kuryakin,"

"You also, Dashiell," he replied, before holding his hand out to the young girl.

Prompted by her mother, Amelia stepped forward, then giggled as Illya kissed the back of her hand.

"Do you want to see my new slide," she asked, grabbing Illya's hand properly and pulling him to his feet. "It's really high."

Napoleon grinned widely as his partner was, unwillingly, dragged outside; closely followed by Dashiell.

"I've never seen her take to someone that quickly," Seraphina said with wonderment. "He must be a magician this friend of yours."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow over everything, when Seraphina and Simeon returned. They found Napoleon sitting on the veranda, with a cup of coffee in his hand. The children were running around the garden, pretending to be airplanes. Illya was the enemy airplane and was chasing them, much to their obvious delight. His too, if the smile he was sporting was anything to go by.

"I thought you told me he was a serious and reserved man," Seraphina commented, sitting down beside her brother.

"He usually is, but it's a mask," he replied. "He gets himself wound up tighter than a guitar string sometimes. When that string unwinds it can go one of two ways; dark or light. This way is less destructive."

It amazed Napoleon just how much younger Illya looked when he let his cares, and his guard, drop. He always looked younger than his years as it was, but anyone seeing him now could easily take him for a twenty year old.

"You're a good friend, Leon. Have they been playing the whole time?"

Other than to stop for lunch, Illya had spent the whole day entertaining the children. They had played games, he'd told them stories and there'd been a lot of running around. Amelia squealed in delight as Illya caught her and swung her round, before letting her escape again. When he did the same with Dashiell, the boy laughed liked he would never stop. Losing his footing, Illya landed on the grass. The children flopped down either side of him and all three laughed.

The Russian had realised early what Napoleon was up to. Part of him wanted to be angry for being manipulated in such a way, but he couldn't find it in himself. His childhood had ended when he'd been about Dashiell's age, and he usually remembered it with sadness and grief. Napoleon, along with his family, had allowed him to remember the fun he'd enjoyed with his sisters.

Realising their parents had returned, the children ran to greet them. Illya followed behind. He was clearly exhausted, but in a good way.

"Thank you for taking care of the children," Seraphina said, as he approached. "It is clear my brother didn't help."

"On the contrary," Illya replied, quite solemnly. "He helped me in a way I never thought possible."


End file.
